Because I Love You
by Hisa-Ai
Summary: Lancelot is chuckling then, however, the most sober of them all, other than Merlin, and Arthur's attention is caught on him, head whipping and eyes moving reluctantly from Merlin to Lancelot, his muddled thoughts answered before he can sort through them enough to wonder anything aloud. "It's love, Arthur," he says, "You're... in love with Merlin."


**This was kind of inspired by Taylor Swift's "You Are In Love."**

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing.

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><p><em>Because I Love You<em>

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><p>*.*.*.*.*<p>

Arthur wonders what this feeling is. Wonders why his eyes often find Merlin no matter the setting or circumstance, wonders why everything is _right_ with the world no matter what's going on or happening when Merlin is nearby. Wonders why Merlin's smile is the best damn thing he thinks he's ever seen. Wonders why the scrape of Merlin's careful fingers across his skin lights a fire in Arthur that spreads with a cool burn until all he can imagine is that same touch wandering across the expanse of the rest of his body...

It's more than all that, though. It's the way air comes easier to Arthur when Merlin is nearby, the way his heart stutters, the way he can't even explain how he's _feeling_ anymore, the way he just sighs contentedly when he has a moment to really think about _Merlin_ and…

And then there are the moments when they're away from Camelot on a patrol or quest or whathaveyou. And it is the small moments then that make Arthur wonder and think and pause. Like sitting around the fire with _Merlin_ the only thing in the world that matters, flames dancing around his face and painting him beautiful in an almost eerie sort of way, or laying on their sleeping rolls almost side by side—Arthur can barely sleep some nights, too caught on the idea that it would be _far_ too easy for him to roll over, to let his own fingers fall across Merlin's skin in the same way Merlin's dance across his own some days while he attends to his duties, and he drifts off wondering if his touch would do the same that to Merlin that Merlin's touch does to him—and all Arthur can think, can wonder about, in these moments, is _why_ he is thinking these things and _why_ Merlin matters so much—because _God,_ does he matter. He matters more than anything has ever mattered before, Arthur realizes—and he can never seem to come up with a good answer.

He wonders often about it all, about what this _is,_ why he's… feeling and thinking these things—because it's something he's never felt before, really, something that's encompassing who he is and a majority of his thoughts and actions—he is the prince today, the king tomorrow, Merlin should _not_ take up so much of what he does and says and thinks; he has a kingdom to look after, after all, people to protect, a king—his father, yes, but still the king—to serve. Merlin _probably_ should not be more important than duty and kingdom, probably wouldn't be, he realizes, if he were not Arthur and Merlin were not Merlin.

But that is not the sort of realization that helps him sort through things.

*.*.*.*.*

He gripes about it one night, while he's drunk and at the tavern with the knights and Merlin is off trying to chorale Gwaine and Percival so they can all return to the castle, and it's just him and Leon and Elyan and Lancelot alone with their drinks, half sober in the best and worst sort of way that Arthur never usually allows himself—except tonight, tonight all he can think about is Merlin Merlin _Merlin_ and he is trying to drown the thoughts out with mead and ale and trying to get his god forsaken manservant out of his mind and he is sure the alcohol will help him with that, so he has decided to allow himself this night of more drinks than he should.

Except all it has done is make these thoughts fall on a looser tongue—if anything, the thoughts have increased, because suddenly it's not just Merlin on his mind, it's Merlin in his mouth, his name and all these secret thoughts and wonderings and desires falling from them without a care in the world to the drunken ears of his knights and friends, who can only be so supportive in such states, really. But Arthur is not thinking about support or advice, he is thinking only of Merlin and the way he is shaking his head in an amused manner across the tavern, grinning at Gwaine as he attempts to flirt with the barmaid with Percival chuckling into his hand, in complete disbelief over the display, it seems; though he, too, seems to be eyeing the barmaid—and Gwaine, Arthur would say, if he were not quite so drunk, but such subtle observations are best left for a sober mind—Gwaine seems to be the one to have captured her attention, drunk though he may be.

And it is all Arthur can seem to focus on in this moment, the way Merlin watches the display for a moment longer before informing the pair of them that they need to be heading back to the castle and leave the poor barmaid in peace, and he is flashing _her_ an apologetic, charming smile that makes Arthur's stomach do flips, though it is not directed at him by any means.

Lancelot is chuckling then, however, the most sober of them all, other than Merlin, and Arthur's attention is caught on him, head whipping and eyes moving reluctantly from Merlin to Lancelot, his muddled thoughts answered before he can sort through them enough to wonder anything aloud.

"It's love, Arthur," he says, tone light and friendly and soft as he informs Arthur, "You're... in love with Merlin." He says, and then Elyan and Leon are laughing at the almost pensive look on his face as he considers the word, weighs it on his drunken mind and compares it to the thought of Merlin and what he feels when he is around him or thinking about him...

But then Merlin himself is coming over with Gwaine and Percival and it is time to return to the castle, so he casts the word aside and allows himself to be engulfed by his friends and brothers and their chatter and laughter and joking, and the moment is okay again, heaviness and seriousness lost from him for now.

It's not until the next morning when Merlin is drawing the curtains and chattering away, back to Arthur all the while, and Arthur is glaring against the harsh light, groggy and wanting desperately for just ten more minutes of sleep and silence, when the word springs back to the front of his mind.

_Love._

He is startled now, in the light of day and not a drop of alcohol in him, that the word makes so much sense, that Lancelot had the exact right word for what Arthur was feeling and why he is always always _always_ thinking about Merlin in such a way. And even though Merlin isn't facing Arthur yet, Arthur can tell from his tone that there is a grin on his face, and it only makes him smile to himself in response, a warm sort of feeling settling around his heart and making him sink against his pillows for another moment before Merlin turns around and the pair of them fall into their morning routine, their back and forth, and it's nicer than usual, Arthur thinks, because the whole time the word is repeating itself over and over again in his mind and somehow... somehow it just makes everything better.

_Love love love love love._

_*.*.*.*.*_

He doesn't know what to do with this new information, however, doesn't know what to do with this feeling or this new word—he knows his knights know about it, but whether they would share that information with Merlin is beyond him; and he doesn't know if he's worried about it or not, because on the one hand, they would never betray Arthur like that, he doesn't think, and doubting them—even for a small moment—feels wrong, but... There is always that chance. And if Merlin is going to find out that Arthur loves him, surely it would be better if it came from the man himself?

He doesn't tell Merlin just then, however—he's only just getting used to associating the word _love_ with Merlin, and even though it feels _right_ and _makes sense..._ well, he's not quite ready to tell him, not sure if he's prepared to let the word roll off his tongue.

So he keeps it to himself.

*.*.*.*.*

Weeks go by and the word is there all the time now, weaving itself into Arthur's every thought, burning itself onto Arthur's skin every time Merlin touches him, thrumming in his blood with every missed beat of his heart whenever Merlin smiles at him, winding itself around every fiber of his being until it's all that there _is_ anymore, and it is proving to be quite distracting, really; all too often he finds his eyes wandering over to Merlin—well, more often than _before_ the word was there and connected to Merlin and this feeling he had towards him, at any rate—smiling at him all too warmly, only half focused on whatever he is meant to be working on whenever Merlin is in the room or nearby.

He is behaving _far_ too much like a love-stricken girl and not nearly enough like the king he is supposed to be.

But not even that is enough to snap him out of it—and really, he thinks, there is no "snapping out" of being in love anyway, so he isn't quite sure who he is trying to convince. Perhaps himself; perhaps no one—so he is starting to wonder if he should have a plan of action, if perhaps he should finally _tell_ Merlin, get it out of his system, out of his blood. Because at the very least, he tells himself, if Merlin does not love him in return, it will be out of his system, and there will be pain where there was once bliss and lingering and _wanting_—and Arthur is used to pain.

*.*.*.*.*

He cannot exactly come up with a decent plan, however. He _wants_ to tell Merlin, feels the words heavy and sharp on his tongue, cutting his mouth up until he feels like he will open his mouth and the words will just come pouring out of him, red as the blood pumping through the damned heart that decided to doom him with this feeling to begin with, but... it is never quite the right time, is it?

*.*.*.*.*

He wonders if he should say it one morning when Merlin is attempting to drag him out of bed, but Arthur insists that Merlin give him_ five more minutes_ to lounge about under his too warm blankets.

"And why should I do that?" Merlin asks, stubbornness in his tone and question, in the way he is standing before Arthur's bed with his hands on his hips, and Arthur's lips quirk upwards, an amused, affectionate chuckle wanting to bubble from his lips.

_Because I love you_, he wants to say, and he's not sure if that would _really_ buy him five more minutes or not, but part of him hopes it would.

But he doesn't say it then anyway.

*.*.*.*.*

He wonders if he should say it when they are out on patrol and ambushed by some bandits, and Merlin, idiot that he is, damn near gets himself killed. And when Arthur is furious with him, worry and relief masking themselves as anger and insults, Merlin rolls his eyes.

"If I'm such an _idiot,"_ he asks sharply, yanking his arm out of Arthur's grasp, his fingers cool at the loss of Merlin's wonderful skin from under his own. "Then why do you even _care_ if I almost get myself killed?"

Arthur pauses, then, the words, _Because I love you_, threatening to leave him that time, surely, and Arthur decides that the middle of a battle field with his knights around would be a fine place to admit this sort of thing to Merlin—because it is so very much _them,_ isn't it? Chaos and strife and unsure and unstable and triumphant and fighting and battle and brotherhood and passion and...

It would be a fine place to admit his love for Merlin, he decides, whether it is reciprocated or not, it would be a good place to do such a thing.

However, he has been silent for far too long, and Lancelot is walking over and gently suggesting that they should get back to the castle, because Merlin is injured and it is growing dark and cold.

Arthur nods, his gaze resting carefully on Merlin for a moment longer before he turns back to his horse and mounts it, riding back to the castle in silence, the knights and Merlin keeping him out of their passing comments and half-held conversation all the way back, and Arthur is a little more than just grateful that they do so, because the words are stuck in his throat now, and if he tries to speak they will come out messy and haggard, and that's not the way Merlin deserves to hear these words.

*.*.*.*.*

It is later that very night, and Arthur has barely said two words to Merlin since they returned to the castle. They've gone about their routine in relative silence, drifting about each other carefully, passing each other and doing what they need to do in their own time, and Arthur can barely take it. But he will not break the silence, because it somehow feels like it is _his_ fault it is there to begin with, and he is mulling it over, trying to figure out why and how and what may have caused it. Because this silence is almost as burning and pressing as Merlin's touch usually is, except perhaps not in the same sort of _pleasant_ way.

It isn't until Merlin's fingers are actually on him again, and he is undressing him for bed—not that Arthur needs help with it, really, and perhaps it would be less awkward if Arthur would do it himself this night, and yet, he cannot bring himself to admit such a thing to either himself or Merlin, not in so many words—that he speaks, his eyes down and on what Merlin's fingers are doing as he says, "About today…"

"Yeah, I'm… sorry, I shouldn't have… made such a big deal about that," Merlin interrupts, keeping his eyes down even as he is stubborn and insubordinate as he always is. "I mean," he babbles on, not leaving Arthur a pause or breath to interrupt, not that he wants to, not that he has any words or thoughts to interrupt _with_ just yet.

So he lets Merlin babble on.

"I'm might be an idiot, but I'm _your_ idiot, right? Your idiot manservant, anyway. Obviously you would care if I got myself killed because then who would put up with you? Polish your armor, sharpen your swords, shine your boots, mend your tunics, drag you out of bed, call you a stubborn ass when you're being a stubborn ass, wake you up—" he prattles on, and if Arthur didn't know Merlin as well as he does, he would not have been able to catch the nervous tremor in his voice and words, the too quick way they are leaving him, and Arthur is starting to wonder if perhaps Merlin knows more than he is letting on about the situation and circumstance.

"It's not—" Arthur interrupts at last, his hands coming to grip Merlin's, to still them in their movements, Arthur's clothes half off but him unable to care about such a thing right now. "—_that_. I mean, it is, but… it's not." Arthur sighs, and the words—_I love you_—have been sitting inside him for so long, waiting for the _perfect_ opportunity to come out, that Arthur is almost too comfortable with them there, too used to them resting just on the tip of his tongue, and he's almost frightened that he just won't be the same without them there anymore, that he will say them and change, feel empty somehow.

"What is it then?" Merlin asks, his tone stained with worry, crease in his forehead with the question as Arthur glances up at him, and he glances up at Arthur for the first time in so many hours, and his gaze is so _genuine_ then that Arthur cannot help the words that fall from his lips, quiet as a prayer, a plea.

"It's because I love you."

And, really, he's not even sure that he has said them at all, wonders if he's just imagining it, if he only _thinks _he has said them, the room is so silent around them, Merlin's eyes on him, and all he can focus on is the way his heart is thudding in his ears and he cannot hear anything outside of it, cannot focus on anything but Merlin's eyes, his own mouth falling open once again as he repeats the words, "It's… because I love you."

"I heard you the first time," Merlin says, closing his eyes, fingers still lingering on Arthur's skin, and Arthur finds his own eyes slipping shut as well, Merlin's touch burning him with the reminder that he has not pulled away or turned Arthur down, and for once in quite a long time outside of battle, Arthur finds himself terrified of what is going to come after this moment.

Butterflies in his stomach, he opens his eyes, swallows as he finds Merlin staring at him, gaze almost stoic, expression serious, eyes shining in a way that makes Arthur's heart stutter, a reminder that he doesn't know… doesn't even know how Merlin is going to react, how he feels, if he feels the same or… anything, really. There is no regret, however; how can there be, when these words have been sitting on his tongue for what feels like decade upon decade—though it really has not been anywhere _near_ this long—and have now been lost in the air, released at last, the weigh off Arthur's shoulders, the secret no longer something that needs to be kept?

He wants very much, however, to know how Merlin…

"Can you…" Merlin says then, biting his bottom lip for a fraction of a moment before starting again. "Can you say it… again?"

Letting out a breathless, humorless laugh that is more borne of nerves than anything else, Arthur nods slowly, feeling even more relief as he says the words again, "It's because I love you."

Merlin nods then, a slow, careful motion. "That's what I thought you said," he whispers. "I'm sorry… about earlier after—after the bandits, I shouldn't have…" he shakes his head, ducking it to avoid Arthur's eye once again.

"No, you shouldn't have," Arthur agrees, sighing a second later. "But… It's okay…"

"Really?" Merlin says skeptically, looking back up at Arthur.

"Yes. And do you want to know why? Because _I love you." _

"I'm never going to get used to you saying that," Merlin mutters with a shake of his head, small smile on his face.

"Do you want me to stop?" Arthur mutters back, moving a hand to splay across Merlin's back, adjusting his gaze to better look into Merlin's eyes, smile on his face, wondering if the way this moment is playing out means good things to come.

_"Never."_ Merlin tells him, leaning in slowly then, fingers still burning Arthur's skin just as his lips do the same, meeting Arthur's for a short moment that lasts only as long as it takes Arthur to think that his heart will burst with happiness and the feeling of being complete and content at last.

"Because…" Merlin is mumbling then, pulling back slowly, and all Arthur can think about, eyes half-open, is about doing that _again_. "I love you, too, you… _idiot."_ He finishes slowly, but there is no real bite to his tone, and even if there was, Arthur would still ignore it as he does the insult anyway, because Merlin is leaning back in, kissing him again, and Arthur—god, Arthur kisses him back, never wants to _stop_ kissing him, actually.

Because he loves him, and this moment… is simply perfection.

*.*.*.*.*


End file.
